Gemotions

The email landed with a thud in Amelia's inbox, just like everything else did these days. Another notification, another meeting, another demand on her time. She clicked the delete button, then clicked it again. Her fingers itched for the satisfaction of the action. This was the fifth time she had done it, the fifth time she had refused to acknowledge the message. The little red number stubbornly remained: 1.

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed, a monotonous drone that matched the drone in her head. She knew what the email said. Everyone knew. The whispers had started a week ago, a low murmur of discontent that had slowly morphed into a tidal wave of panic. Sale. Acquisition. The death knell of everything she had worked for.

Amelia leaned back in her chair, the cheap plastic creaking in protest. She had seen these things happen before, watched as others scrambled, their faces etched with a fear she wouldn't allow herself to feel. She crossed her arms, a shield against the unsettling news, and focused on the coffee stain on the corner of her desk. It had been there for a week, a testament to her steadfast refusal to address the mess.